


Those Emptied Hells

by HigharollaKockamamie



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Guns, M/M, terrible subjects for pillow talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8807761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigharollaKockamamie/pseuds/HigharollaKockamamie
Summary: A spontaneous date, some competition, and what Ocelot never asked.





	

When he woke in the middle of the night with a name on his lips, Ocelot went out to walk the decks and think of nothing. Over the past year he had lost the ability to remember his dreams. It was a part of getting old. 

_Julia, my love,_ he thought, for no reason at all.

The stars were clear in the sky, and moonlight made the metal glow a muted gray. A man on watch turned to the sound of his spurs and saluted.

He meandered a while, then went, of course, toward the distant sound of gunfire. 

The bursts of shots were a pattern as steady as the motions of the small shape under the light at the shooting range. This platform's was too small and out of the way to get much use, except from those who valued privacy over convenience. Miller's one-handed style was distinctive. The spareness of his movements was pleasing to the eye, like a scene in a well-shot film. 

“On your left,” Ocelot said as he walked up beside him. 

Miller set the gun on the table. He managed to push the ear protection off without knocking off his hat. “What do you want?” 

Every language had its own “hello.” 

“Couldn't sleep,” he said, knowing Miller would add it to the list of things not to acknowledge they had in common. “Do you mind if I watch?” 

Miller didn't look up from reloading. The floodlight's glare opaqued his glasses into two white walls. “I can't stop you.” 

It was an involved process. His injuries meant he couldn't kneel to do the trick of bracing the rifle behind his knee. He had to get resourceful with using the table and his hip. Ocelot was watching the results of plenty of trial and error.

He said, “That would go easier with a prosthetic.” 

Miller jerked his head toward Ocelot's holster. “That would reload quicker if you used an automatic.” 

He put the earmuffs back on and fell back into his rhythm. He took the recoil in a cavalcade of tiny shifts to his balance. The sunglasses covering his face drew the eyes to his lips, and how they were tight with focus. Each shot made his coat shudder, and he stayed firm.

Ocelot was curious about how it felt. 

He went to the rack and got a weapon of his own. He brought it over, and as Miller shot, tried loading it with only his left hand. Miller's lips drew thin and flat when he glanced over. There wasn't a thing in the world Ocelot could do that Miller wouldn't interpret as mocking. 

Ocelot had made a life's career out of his skill at convincing people they were on the same side. It was appropriate, somehow, that the one time he couldn't find a way to do it was the time it was true. 

That was karma for you. 

The one-handed trick was harder than it looked. He wasn't irritated at Miller's glance when the magazine slipped out of his fingers and clattered on the ground.

Well. Not very much.

Without another hand to guide with, a weapon like this was a whole different beast. It took strength and concentration to keep the recoil from letting the shots run wild. The fire from beside him ended before his did, and there wasn't the sound of reloading. When the clip ran dry and he looked over, Miller was watching, hand resting on his gun.

Ocelot let his right arm lie dead at his side. He imagined the sleeve lying flat and empty. He managed the reload quicker this time, though his movements were still unlovely, and working with hot metal put new twists in the trick. 

Miller drew in breath, most likely for something acidic about not being in the mood for his games or to say it was too late at night to indulge in petty sadism. It was surprising he'd let Ocelot stay this long. He'd been slower with his anger, ever since the second outbreak. 

Miller said, “Like this.” 

His demonstration was slow and clear, and Ocelot echoed each movement.

When the clip ran dry, Miller waited for him again, spine straight, expectant. 

Ocelot prepared the next and set it by the gun on the table. Miller's glasses were aimed steadily at him.

Miller said, “Three. Two. One.” 

As always when it came to Miller, Ocelot gave it his honest effort. 

By the time he looked up Miller was shooting with a smile on his face. 

The shots faded into silence, and Ocelot said, “Best two out of three.” 

Miller had the advantage of practice.

The third time – behind by less, mind you – Ocelot put his hands up, the left along with the half-forgotten other one. “All right, all right.”

“Are you sure?” Miller said, with a note in his voice that verified the stories the old hands told about their wild commander. “I could go all night.” 

“You have to sleep sometime.” Though some of the men who watched the decks at night had their doubts about that. “Wait. Let me see your stance.” 

It was unique, with the way Miller had to compensate for his balance, but had a certain grace to the way he lifted the gun. Ocelot moved just behind him, raising his own arm alongside to feel how he hefted the weight in the lay of his muscle beneath the layers of his coat and shirt. 

Miller's brows knit. He set the gun down on the table and reached back. His hand patted blindly down Ocelot until it found the front of his pants and made him hiss air through his teeth. 

“You,” Miller discovered, “are nearly fully loaded.” 

“I appreciate a good performance,” said Ocelot. 

They took care of the guns and put them away properly before going to Miller's room, where Ocelot stripped him down out of each layer with methodical hunger that won him a place kneeling between his legs with his head held down by a hand in a glove that smelled like gunpowder. 

Ocelot rode him with one hand braced on his quarters' blank wall, and the victory was that when Miller's glasses fell from his face he didn't bother to put them back. His face was startling, uncovered and with pleasure pulling the corners of his eyes. Sweat darkened the roots of his hair. Ocelot swayed his hips to take Miller's cock deep and moved his hands onto his shoulders, high on the right to keep from trespassing on private territory, until Miller's lips pulled back from his teeth and while his hips thrust upwards he grabbed Ocelot's wrist and slapped his hand onto the place where the arm ended. The scar tissue was a complex texture.

“I don't get to avoid it,” he said, breath short with the work he was doing. “Neither do you.” 

Where Ocelot couldn't show him kindness, he could rise to a challenge. Locked with Miller's pale eyes, he sank hard onto his cock and bent in half to kiss the mark of his loss. The seam pressed a path across his lips. 

He had to straighten up, then, to give Miller everything he had and to rock against him at the angle that made sparks burst in his skull. He arched, and the sound he made when he painted long lines across Miller's body was wordless and indefensible. Then, he could plant his hands on the ridges of Miller's hips and show him what real focus could do. 

Miller's face when he came was caught in motion, in the twitch of dark gold eyelashes, the press of his head back against the pillow, and the silent parting of his lips. 

There was a grace period, there, where he wouldn't notice how long Ocelot looked. 

The bunk was narrow. Lying beside him wedged Ocelot between Miller's body and the wall, close enough to feel his shoulders lift as he caught his breath. Some of Ocelot's hair was caught beneath Miller's head. His body was too heavy and warm to bother dislodging it. An arm rested against him, and a foot did not. 

In the old photos, Miller was a slick, usual sort of handsome. There were men that suffering refined. 

Miller said, “You never asked.” 

“Hm?” Ocelot looked up at the metal ceiling and imagined the ocean beneath them. 

“What they did to me at Ghwandai.” Miller, too, was taking an interest in the ceiling. 

Ocelot had no interest in cruelty to him, including inflicting unwanted sympathy.

He said, “I don't chase information I don't need.” 

“You would have been disappointed. They were amateurs.” There was casual contempt in Miller's voice. “They found me bleeding out and didn't have any idea what to do from there. I was already half-gone and too delirious for anything they did to register. But then, all they would have had to do is threaten to cut off more.” 

The sweat was cooling on Ocelot's skin, except where Miller's body and his shared heat. He remarked, “That wouldn't have worked.” 

Miller's grunt made his adam's apple jerk under his stubbled throat. “There's no point in flattering someone who's already in your bed.”

“It's the truth.” 

“How would you know?” 

“Because I know you, Miller.” 

Ocelot had his measure well by now. Miller, the stubborn son of a bitch, was a constant thorn in his side, an inevitable second-guess, the other devil on their boss's shoulder, and the only person but one whose comrade Ocelot had ever really been.

There was the slow-breathing silence of someone gearing up. 

Miller said, “What would you have done?” 

The words had been thought before. They had that weight. 

Ocelot said, “To break you?” 

Miller wasn't looking at him. “Yeah.” 

Maybe he did actually believe, for once, that Ocelot could be honest with him. That, or he believed that Ocelot would refuse to answer, and by that mercy call him a coward.

Ocelot said, “Your weak point is your strength. What you've built and what you love. Your pride in it.” 

Miller's face didn't turn. His gaze moved alone, falling to the corner of his eye to bear on Ocelot.

“If I wanted you broken, Miller, first I'd destroy everything you'd made. I'd steal your home from you and burn it to the ground.” 

At this range, there was no need to speak much louder than breathing. Maybe that more than anything was what made lovers intimate. 

“I would break your body past repair.”

The evenness of the rise and fall of Miller's chest betrayed conscious control. 

It was long breaths of his own before Ocelot continued. “If that wasn't enough. If I wanted to crush you permanently and make it so you would never be good for anything again-”

It was, as someone had once written in a book Ocelot had never read, a sort of offering. 

Because he couldn't say _I'm sorry_ , Ocelot said, “I would make you sit helpless and watch your men die.” 

You would have to pay attention to know it had been some time since Miller had blinked. 

“And if that didn't work? If you were still, somehow, on your feet and moving?” 

“Yeah?” said Miller, though the pause had not been long.

Ocelot shrugged his far shoulder. “I would give up and look for what I needed elsewhere. There's a point where it's wasted effort.” 

Miller looked at him with a hazed eye. 

His eyes closed. A low shaking started in his body and worked its way up through the whole of him. It came out as a low, rumbling laugh. 

“That,” Kaz said, “is the best compliment I've ever gotten.” 

Ocelot didn't ruin the moment by admitting he had meant it as one.

“What can I say?” He spread his hands. “You're a unique creature, Miller.” 

“The world couldn't take more than one of either of us.” Miller turned over to switch off the lamp. Darkness fell, and he settled back down against Ocelot. 

The base settled and creaked in the night. Ocelot listened for a while.

“Miller?”

“Hm?” He felt the hum of it along Miller's back. 

“I'll see you at the range again. Pick a more reasonable hour next time.” 

Miller said, “Heh,” as good as a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> For Ocelhira Week Day 6 - Date, but it sort of fits into the background of Plasticity.


End file.
